The Table
by Ariadne - Champion of Life
Summary: Moved from musicalsplays. Very odd and kind of sad...PotO, but no names are used. Please Review.


Disclaimer: Okay, no names are actually used in this piece, mais the implication is there, non? Alors, I don't own any characters from PotO. Yet.  
  
A/N: This was a challenge in a book I have called "Writing Dialouge". It had a list of snippets of dialouge, and you were supposed to choose one and build a story that might include it. My choice was the last piece of dialouge in this short story, mainly because when I read it, I had a little inspiration flash of a cherubic little boy asking something about a table and I (in the flash) stared down at my hands...well, you'll read it. R/R pretty peas!!  
  
Early morning sunlight streamed through the windows, hitting the little boy's golden hair, making it cast a glow like a halo. He sat, his big blue eyes staring down at the table in front of him. As the maid placed the plate in front of him, he shifted his gaze to the glass of milk in front of him.  
  
Further down the table, his mother and father chatted graciously, about trivial matters, such as the new baby's name. A gold chain hung around his mother's neck, with a gold ring on it that she touched as she spoke, putting her finger in the ring and pulling on it. His mother's slight form had already started to grow round with the baby underneath her large petticoat. She was unnaturally pale and her jocundity had a hint of bitterness around the edges. Or, perhaps more astutely, right in the heart. Dark shadows settled in the hollows beneath her big clear blue eyes in contrast to her moon-pale skin. Her sadness was only tempered by her gentleness. Father was amiable to all outward appearances, but fine lines had appeared between his brilliant blue eyes and around his mouth framed by the little Parisian moustache. They were not fighting today; perhaps Mama was too tired to engage him any more.  
  
Mama had been sick for a long time, as long as he could remember. His older sister, though, could remember a time when Mama was not sick. The little boy looked up to his sister as if she were a goddess. Coming from the same womb was the only thing they had in common. She was a musical four-year-old, with big, bright-green eyes and black-olive colored hair paired with a curiously gentle temperament. He, on the other hand, inherited his father's fiery pride and affinity for sailing. He had also inherited his mother's innate, irrepressible curiosity...  
  
"Mama, Father, my friend Edouard said his family inherited his table from his grandparents. He said it is a family heirloom," the little boy said, looking across the table at his parents. Both his parents' heads cast off the same golden halo as his did as they glanced up at him.  
  
"That's nice, fils," his father remarked casually as lines appeared in his forehead. He picked up the newspaper and began to read the news for June 14, 1885. His mother looked at him curiously.  
  
"Is our table a family heirloom?" he asked, his angelic countenance quizzical. The lines in his father's forehead deepened, creases appearing between his eyes. His paper rustled as he looked over at Mama. Mama was staring at her hands, which clutched at the white linen tablecloth as if it were her last hope of survival. Pearly tears dropped from her eyes to her hands, landing on the tablecloth and on her hands, her wedding ring. She had not the strength, not the courage, to look up at her husband. The little girl gasped.  
  
"Mama!" she called in her musical voice, running to her mother's side.  
  
"No, no, chere, I'm all right," his mother said, waving her away and wiping her tears from her cheeks, letting go of the death grip she had on the table. She clutched for her necklace, but pulled too hard on the ring around her neck and broke the chain.  
  
"Oh," she gasped. The little girl picked up the broken pieces of the chain and the ring, which had fallen on the floor, and handed them to her mother. "Merci," his mother whispered, cupping the pieces of broken necklace gently in her palms.  
  
The little boy had no idea why his question had caused such agitation in his calm, dreamy-souled mother. Nor could he understand the hatred with which his father glared at the little necklace and the table. He tore his eyes from his beloved, broken wife and looked at his firstborn son, his namesake.  
  
"No," he said, standing and folding his paper in one motion. "No. This is not our table."  
  
~~~~~  
A/N: No, I don't know why they would have Erik's table! (I hope you caught that implication there.) Anywhoo, I also know that Christine had given Erik The Ring by then, that was just for dramatic effect, and symbolism. There, I think I've covered it. Review, please! 


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